


The Wrong Trousers (Or, Why the Stig is no longer allowed to watch American movies)

by proleptic_fancy



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Bodyswap, Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-25
Updated: 2007-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-28 06:12:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proleptic_fancy/pseuds/proleptic_fancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Richard is confused, Jeremy is traumatized, and James is caught in the middle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wrong Trousers (Or, Why the Stig is no longer allowed to watch American movies)

Richard's first thought upon waking up was that if he didn't rescue the Swedish ambassador in time, the bagel alliance would take over the world.

Er... scratch that.

Richard's first coherent thought upon waking up was the realization that he was completely naked, which was strange indeed, because he was certain he hadn't gone to bed that way. Stranger yet was the undeniable fact that this wasn't his bed, and judging from the lightly snoring lump of blankets next to him, he wasn't alone. He pulled back the covers with apprehension, revealing none other than a peacefully sleeping, equally naked Francie Clarkson.

Resisting the natural instinct to bolt, Richard rose from the bed as quietly as possible. If he could manage to get dressed and slip away before she woke up, he might be able to catch the next plane to Brazil before Jeremy found out and tore him limb from–

"Come back to bed, dear," she called, cutting off his silent panic.

Dear God, what had he done last night?

"Can't. I've, er, got an early meeting. Health and Safety. You know how they are," Richard replied before blinking in surprise. His voice sounded... off, as if he were sick or something, but he didn't feel sick, just wrong somehow.

Without waiting for a reply, Richard stumbled into the linen closet across the hall, swore briefly, and tried the next door over. Success! He stepped up to the bathroom mirror and surveyed his reflection. Now that couldn't be right. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, but there was no change. Jeremy Clarkson continued to stare back at him.

Oddly enough, Richard felt relieved. This explained everything, really. He had finally snapped and this was nothing more than one big delusion. Secure in his newfound mental state, Richard showered quickly, doing his best to avoid seeing more of Clarkson's naked body than was absolutely necessary. After all, he may have been crazy, but there was no need for him to go blind as well. That would just be overkill.

As he dressed, Richard briefly contemplated the possibility that he was, in fact, not insane and somehow managed to wake up in his friend's body. He toyed with the idea of skipping the day of long, boring meetings to get completely plastered, but decided against it. Jeremy could be a bit of a dick, but he was still a friend, and getting him fired the morning after apparently sleeping with his wife was unlikely to result in Richard's surviving the next twenty-four hours. Besides, if he had ended up in Clarkson's body, that still left the question of what had happened to Clarkson. With unpleasant suspicions lurking in the back of his mind, Richard set off to prepare for the day's work.

The sun had barely started to peek over the horizon when he reached the production office. Still groggy, Richard made a beeline for the coffee machine, passing James as he went.

"Morning," he said, then stopped, noting the other man's vaguely distracted expression. "You alright?"

James seemed to finally notice that he was being spoken to. "Oh, fine. Absolutely," he replied, still sounding a bit dazed, before continuing to wander in the general direction of the big table of Very Important Information.

Richard briefly wondered what had gotten into him, but pushed it aside in favor of an overwhelming sensation of mind-numbing boredom as he, too, made his way to the morning's sermon, er, meeting.

Meanwhile, the bleating of an alarm clock woke Jeremy with a start. Not a morning person on the best of days, he groped for the off switch for several agonizing seconds before figuring out that the clock was actually several feet away, on the dresser. It wasn't until he silenced the damn thing and stopped to wonder what kind of moron put his clock halfway across the room that he realized he hadn't the slightest idea where he was. Frowning, he left the small bedroom and began to explore the rest of the sparsely furnished flat. As his eyes grew accustomed to the early morning darkness, his surroundings began to look more and more familiar. A quick peek in the refrigerator, which was empty save for some leftover take-away and a few cans of coke, confirmed his suspicions: he had somehow managed to wake up in Hammond's flat, and Hammond was nowhere to be found.

Jeremy shrugged it off; he could worry about his sleeping situation later. Right now he had to get to some idiotic planning meeting at an ungodly hour. He stepped into the bathroom, disrobing as he went, but stopped when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the dingy mirror, or to be more specific, Richard's reflection. Startled, Jeremy poked a bit at his face. Yep, still Richard, which explained a lot, actually, like how everything seemed so much higher up this morning. His curiosity nearly sated, he chanced a quick glance down as he stepped into the shower. Now that just wasn't fair.

Ten minutes later, Jeremy was surveying the contents of Richard's dresser critically. It wasn't every day you got to wake up ten years younger, and Jeremy planned on taking advantage of his chance as much as humanly possible. After a heated search for something suitably exploitative, he found a pair of leather trousers shoved into the back of a drawer and squeezed into them with glee. With that taken care of, Jeremy realized that if he wanted to be able to pass as Hammond, he'd have to do something about the hair currently getting his shirt damp.

With trepidation, Jeremy ventured back into Richard's tiny bathroom and opened the cabinet behind the mirror, which, unlike the rest of the bare flat, was cluttered with all kinds of bottles and tubes. Jeremy smiled to himself. There had to be something incriminating in all of that crap. He set aside a bottle of something green and sticky to rub in his hair and hope for the best before refining his search. Before long, it payed off, as he found a thick, black eyeliner pencil, which he made a note to ask Hammond about later, and, yes, a half empty box of those little teeth-whitening strips the other man so vehemently denied using.

"Knew it," he said with a vibrant grin before turning back to the task at hand.

However, the rest of the cabinet's contents were fairly tame, even domestic, with the exception of a small blue bottle slightly separate from all the rest. It was some sort of aftershave, but Jeremy had never heard of it, and it didn't seem like something Richard would have anything to do with. Jeremy shrugged. It must've been a gift or something.

A quick glance at his watch cut Jeremy's fun short, and after a quick search for Richard's keys, he made his way down to the building's parking lot where an unpleasant surprise was waiting for him. How typical. Out of all the cars Hammond owned, Jeremy was stuck driving the bloody Land Rover. Frustrated, he drove to the office with all the windows down in a last-minute attempt to approximate Richard's hair. It failed rather miserably, but Jeremy was fairly confident nobody would notice, not in these trousers anyway.

Jeremy's theory was proved correct as soon as he entered the building, pretending he wasn't enjoying all the heads he was turning as he sauntered into the back for some coffee. Caught up in sweet, sweet caffeine, he completely failed to notice James standing in the doorway until he nearly walked into the taller man.

"Sorry, mate," he said, making no effort to move.

James just shrugged and stood aside to let him pass, but froze momentarily as he took in the full effect of Jeremy's unconventional fashion choice.

"Richard," he began, his voice sounding higher than usual. "You're wearing leather trousers."

"Yes, I am," Jeremy replied with a smirk.

"Right. Well, I'd better go do that, er, thing, over there," James said stiffly before practically fleeing, well, more like walking briskly away from Jeremy.

Jeremy ignored him. After all, James May acting weird was about as unlikely as the sun coming up in the morning, and Jeremy had much more important things to worry about, like finding the ideal seat to catch a quick nap while appearing to pay attention to whatever Health and Safety was nattering on about this time. He approached the big table, figured out a likely angle, compensated for the significant height difference, and found the perfect chair. The perfect chair which was currently occupied by his own body. Bastard.

Jeremy took a seat across from, well, himself, and mouthed, "Hamster?"

His own eyes narrowed at him, then widened in shock as he replied. "Jeremy? Is that–what the hell have you done with my hair?"

Before Jeremy could think of a suitably sarcastic remark, the meeting was called to order and he was forced to be a good boy and pretend very hard that he was paying attention. Of course, that was easier said than done with Hammond glowering at him and May blatantly Not Staring. However, he'd become quite good at ignoring both of them over the years, and Jeremy put those skills to use like never before, letting his eyes rest for a minute. Or so he thought until receiving a surprisingly savage kick under the table. Richard was still glaring at him, but he was no longer the only one.

"Only you could manage to sleep through the entire meeting, you tosser," Richard grumbled.

"Doesn't mean you had to kick me," Jeremy replied, rubbing his sore leg. "Wait a minute, you idiot. You just kicked your own body, so you'll be the one stuck with the bruise," he said, mentally adding, 'if we ever do get switched back, that is.'

Richard frowned. "Didn't think of that."

"So now what?" Jeremy asked, still annoyed at having been woken up.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Richard replied. "We have to see the Stig."

Jeremy nodded wearily, and the two men made their way outside.

When they reached the small trailer, Richard rapped on the door.

"Stig?" he called. "It's Richard and Jeremy. Can we come in?"

The door swung open and the Stig motioned them inside. He switched off the recently installed television before turning to face them again, his helmet tilted inquisitively.

"Well, you see, Jeremy and I–" Richard was cut off by the Stig's confused gesturing. "Yes, I'm Richard, he's Jeremy, and that's our problem."

The driver nodded in understanding.

"What we want to know is what caused it–"

"Forget that!" Jeremy interrupted. "What's important is that you can fix it!" His voice dropped as realization dawned. "Of course, you can fix it?"

The Stig thought for a moment, then gave a single nod.

Richard let out a breath he wasn't aware he was holding. "That's a relief."

The Stig held up a hand, indicating there was more. Through a series of complicated mimes, he managed to communicate that it would be very dangerous to switch them back while they were still awake, but there shouldn't be any problems if they could hold off until that night.

The two men thanked the driver and turned to leave, but were stopped by a strange sound behind them.

"I'm no expert, but if I had to guess, I'd say the transfer was caused by an influx of some kind of dynamic tachyon energy given off by recent solar flare activity," declared a young, confident voice only slightly muffled by a driver's helmet.

Both men turned and stared.

"What? Have you ever tried miming 'dynamic tachyon influx'?"

"Since when can you talk?" asked Jeremy incredulously.

The Stig crossed his arms irritably. "If you humans can figure it out, it can hardly be very difficult, now can it?"

Jeremy stepped forward to retaliate, but Richard pulled him back.

"Thanks loads, Stig. I'll try to keep Jez out of trouble until tonight," he said, steering a protesting Jeremy out the door.

"Nice trousers," the driver called after them as they made their way back across the field.

When they reached the door, Richard stopped, still gripping Jeremy's arm. "I'm a bit fond of my body. Can I trust you not to do anything terribly stupid with it while I go talk to our mighty producer about next week's filming?"

Jeremy gave him a look. "Honestly, Hammond. How hard can it be?"

Richard groaned loudly. "Sometimes I hate you, you know that?" he said, turning sharply and stalking off to the other end of the Portakabin.

Jeremy ignored the other man's obvious overreaction and decided to pursue more coffee. As he waited for the infernal machine to deliver, he became suddenly aware of a significant invasion of his personal space. Muttering about paranoid rodents, he wheeled to confront the man behind him, but overestimated the power required to move his new, smaller frame and stumbled directly into the arms of an overly-amused James May.

Jeremy fully expected to be shoved away and likely mocked for his apparent clumsiness, but it became obvious that James intended to do neither as Jeremy felt himself being drawn in closer. Before he had time to react to this new development, Jeremy was being firmly snogged by his co-presenter, right out in the open where anyone might see them. He froze, temporarily overwhelmed by James's solid warmth and the scent of little blue bottles. The spell was soon broken, however, when James's hand drifted significantly lower than Jeremy was entirely comfortable with. Jeremy's eyes widened and he pulled free. He tried to step back, but was blocked by the counter, leaving him effectively trapped.

"What the hell was that all about? Have you gone completely mad?" he yelled, before wiping his mouth on his wrist in disgust.

James looked down at him apologetically. "No, you're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that," he said softly.

"Damn right you shouldn't have," Jeremy replied.

James didn't respond, and Jeremy felt mildly relieved when the other man turned and left in silence. Now fully realizing what he had just done, Jeremy downed his too-hot coffee in an attempt to remove any lingering James-taste, and was still furiously scrubbing at his mouth when Hammond poked his head in.

"Jezza? Is everything alright in there? I heard shouting," he said, a worried look crossing his face.

"It most certainly is not!" Jeremy shouted. "I was just snogged! By James! In a corner! How could that possibly be considered all right?"

The color drained from Richard's face. "Where's he gone, then?" he asked, his voice too-soft and carefully severed from emotion.

"What do you mean, 'Where's he gone?'" Jeremy spluttered, his pitch and volume increasing exponentially as he continued. "He isn't the one who just got aggressively manhandled, and I mean that in every possible sense of the word, and he isn't the one who's going to require years and years of therapy as a result of said handling, so why, exactly, are we looking for him?"

Richard took a deep breath and tried to work out if it would be worth it to punch his own body in the face if it would get Clarkson to shut up, but settled instead for adapting his usual eyebrow arch to Jeremy's rather unresponsive features. Amazingly enough, it worked, although Richard suspected it was more because he looked like an utter prat as opposed to any significance in the gesture itself. Still, Jeremy was silent, and Richard was able to continue.

"We owe him an explanation, at least, and I suppose you probably deserve one too, but we've got to find him first."

Jeremy opened his mouth to argue, but a firm glare from Richard stopped him, and he begrudgingly followed the other man outside.

The search for May was a short one, as they soon found him leaning against the shady side of the Portakabin, staring down at the grass. He didn't look up when they approached.

"Listen, James. There's been a terrible misunderstanding," Richard began, mostly succeeding at not sounding terrified.

"So I gathered," James replied flatly. "I see Clarkson's in on it too, which is surprising, I'll admit."

"Now wait a minute," Jeremy cut in before Richard could respond. "I don't have the slightest idea what you're on about, let alone being 'in on it.'"

That made James look up.

"Like I said, misunderstanding," Richard said, smiling in spite of himself at James's helplessly confused expression.

"That would explain quite a lot, actually, if it was even remotely physically possible, which it most certainly is not."

Jeremy crossed his arms. "Fine then. We'll have to prove it to you," he said irritably. "Ask that tall, roguishly handsome gentleman over there something that only Richard Hammond would know, but for my sanity's sake, do keep it clean."

James sighed, but did as he was told. "Well, er, when we were in America, and Jeremy was off running down dinner, we had a rather memorable conversation. What about?"

Richard grinned, ignoring Jeremy's protests that he had found that cow perfectly dead, fair and square, and whispered a few choice snippets to James, who flushed.

"Paraphrased, of course," he added in a normal tone of voice.

James blinked. "I don't know how, but I suppose I have no choice but to believe you two."

Jeremy smirked. "Now that we're finally getting somewhere, would one of you mind explaining exactly when assaulting one's coworkers during their coffee breaks became normal workplace behavior?"

Both men looked suddenly uneasy. Richard spoke first.

"Yeah, about that. You see, James and I, we meant to tell you eventu–no, more like never, actually," he said.

Aware of Jeremy's blank stare, James stepped in. "The point he's trying to make is that the two of us have an arrangement, in which these assaults, as you so charmingly put it, are indeed quite normal."

Jeremy continued to stare, but composed himself enough to ask "And how long has this been going on?"

"America," James said plainly, exactly as Richard replied "Caravanning."

James turned. "Now wait a minute, you said that was an accident."

Richard flushed slightly, muttering, "Doesn't mean I didn't enjoy it."

"You're disgusting, you know that?" James asked, but he was smiling.

Richard was about to reply when Jeremy cleared his throat loudly, diverting their attention back to him.

"So let me get this straight," he began. "You two have been sneaking about, doing all sorts of unspeakable things for months now, and haven't invited me to join you once? Frankly, gentlemen, I'm hurt."

The two men gaped at him, stunned by the sudden reversal in his attitude.

"I'd've said no, of course," he continued smoothly, "and probably mocked you both considerably, but it still would've been the polite thing to do."

Instead of attempting to go up against Jeremy's unique brand of logic, James decided to quickly change the subject.

"So what did you two say caused the switch?" he asked.

"We didn't," Jeremy replied, "but the Stig said it was caused by some solar flare energy particle...thing."

James frowned. "But that doesn't make any sense. If it were caused by some cosmic event, wouldn't there be reports from all over London, at the very least? Why only you two?"

"I don't know, but there's one way to find out," said Richard.

"Yes, yes, we'll go and see the Stig," Jeremy replied. "After all, he was so very helpful last time."

Nevertheless, five minutes later, Richard was pounding on the trailer door while the others stood behind him, bemused.

"Dammit, Stig! We just want answers!" he yelled, and was eventually rewarded by the door swinging open and the not-so-tame driver standing before them, arms crossed in irritation.

"Listen, we know you lied, but we don't care. Well, Hammond seems to, but that's not important," Jeremy said. "What does matter is that you didn't lie about switching us back. You can still fix it?"

The Stig nodded.

"Can you be absolutely sure? I really don't want to be Clarkson forever!" Richard added.

"If I did it once, it can be done again," the Stig said quietly, sounding considerably embarrassed.

"You did what?" Jeremy shouted.

The Stig shrank back a little. "I hacked into the satellite for the new television, and I found this strange American movie where the women switched bodies to learn a lesson. It...it had a happy ending," he finished lamely.

"So you mean I'm supposed to learn some kind of lesson and we'll all live in peace and harmony?" Jeremy asked, indignation rising in his voice.

"Not bloody likely," Richard muttered.

"Just lie low until tonight, and everything will be fixed by morning. No lessons, I promise," the Stig said quickly before darting back into his trailer and locking the door behind him.

The three men stared for a moment before James, who had been uncharacteristically silent during the entire exchange, finally spoke up.

"Since when does the Stig talk?"

After a brief squabble about the exact meaning of 'lie low', Richard decided that the best possible solution was to find the nearest pub and get completely shitfaced.

Jeremy tried to argue, but Richard cut him off.

"Two years is a very long time, mate. Cope," he said in no uncertain terms.

Recognizing a lost cause when he saw it, Jeremy backed down and the three men went their separate ways, agreeing to meet at the pub in an hour for food and extensive self-medication.

Richard was already waiting, beer in hand, when Jeremy arrived.

"That's hardly fair," he said as he sat.

"What do you mean?" Richard asked.

"You getting as drunk as you please when I'll be suffering the hangover tomorrow."

Richard shrugged and took another drink. "Seems fair enough to me."

"And the worst part is, I can't even retaliate, or you'll go off and die or something and James will murder me. Death by Slow! My children would never be able to show their faces again out of embarrassment!"

"It would serve you right," replied James, who had just arrived, predictably last.

"I'd offer to help you hide the body, but it sounds like I'll be a bit indisposed," Richard said with a grin.

Jeremy just glowered at them, sipping his coke in silence.

As the evening wore on and he watched his co-presenters get steadily pissed, Jeremy began to understand Richard's usual irritation at James and himself whenever the three of them went out.

"Hey, none of that!" he said, refusing to be subjected to watching his own body getting a little too frisky with May.

Richard stuck his tongue out at him, the alcohol obviously affecting his maturity as well as his motor skills. "Stop being such a big girl, Jez," he said with a grin.

"Well forgive me for not wanting my face all over the tabloids. Francie would throw a fit," he grumbled.

Richard ignored him.

"James?" he slurred.

"Mmm?" James replied, actively trying not to be creeped out by Jeremy's body leaning on him.

"I really, really hate my flat."

"Yes."

"It's drafty, and, and it hasn't got any chairs! Or food," he added thoughtfully.

"I suppose not."

"And I was thinking," he ignored the snort from Jeremy. "You," he began, poking James rather hard in the chest, "have lots of chairs, and my lease is nearly up, so..." he trailed off, spreading his hands.

James frowned in confusion. "So you want me to sell one of my chairs to help pay your rent?" he tried.

"No, you stupid cock, he wants to move in with you, but he's too proud and far too drunk to ask you properly," Jeremy said, letting realization dawn on James's face. "There, I've been a good boy and learned my lesson, Mr. Stig. May I please have my body back?"

James ignored Jeremy's irritated rantings and turned to face Richard.

"On one condition," he said.

"Wossat?" Richard asked.

"Please stop leering at me. It's getting frightening."

Richard frowned. "I was trying to look alluring."

"With Clarkson's face?"

"Oh. Good point. Sorry, mate," Richard said, now opting for a wide grin. "Better?"

James shrugged. "It'll do."

"If you two lovebirds don't mind, I'd like to see my wife sooner rather than later, and neither of you are fit to drive home," Jeremy interrupted. "And there's nothing wrong with my face!"

James attempted to protest, but Jeremy continued. "The sooner you get home, the sooner we get switched, and the sooner you two can go back to doing things I never, ever, want details about, so do what you need to get your cars home and meet me in the Land Rover, or I'll shoot you both. Understood?"

Both men nodded, and once the prerequisite cracks about Jeremy's crap aim were taken care of, they were on their way in ten minutes time. When they reached Jeremy's home, he stopped Richard from immediately leaving.

"Hammond, since you took advantage of my body's alcohol capacity in various and creative ways tonight, you're going to do me a small favor," he said.

"Honestly, Clarkson. He's in no condition to have sex with your wife," James interjected from the back seat.

Jeremy resisted the urge to kill one of them before continuing. "Not exactly. Just, when you get in there, tell Francie I love her, and will absolutely never leave her for a long-haired git who takes four hours to do anything."

"I'll tell her you love her," Richard amended with a small smile before stumbling out of the car and into the house.

Jeremy and James rode back in uncomfortable silence until they reached James's house.

"Aren't you coming in?" James asked.

"I'm not sleeping with you," Jeremy said, staying firmly in the Land Rover.

James gave him a look. "There's another bed."

Jeremy started to argue, but decided against it, following James in with a sigh. "I'll take the sofa."

It was uncomfortable, especially in the leather trousers, but Jeremy fell asleep with surprising ease, only to wake a few hours later with the early twinges of an ungodly hangover. Muttering a few choice words about Hammond, he turned over and kissed his wife before sleep claimed him once again.

Meanwhile, Richard woke in the dark with a stiff neck and a face full of purring cat. Relief washing over him, as well as irritation at Clarkson for refusing the perfectly comfortable guest bed, he delicately removed Fusker and quietly made his way upstairs, leaving the trousers behind. He entered the dark bedroom and slid under the covers next to James's sleeping form. Curling up closer, he smiled. Maybe the Stig was right, and this story had a moral, but for once, content and warm and _loved_ , Richard couldn't care less.


End file.
